THE FOLLOWING MORNING Cressida arrived at the gallery at 8.30. She was determined to make the most of the time she had to herself, knowing that Detective Chief Inspector Williams was hoping she’d find some concrete evidence linking the gallery to the art forgeries.
She went into Marcia’s office and opened the top right-hand drawer of the older woman’s desk. She’d been afraid that it might be locked, but to her relief not only was it open, it also contained the key to the other drawers in the desk.
Swiftly she unlocked them and then began going through the files. The headings were vague: ‘Promising’, ‘Rejections’, ‘Overseas Contacts’ and ‘Active’ all nestled amidst files marked A – Z that could contain anything at all. With a sinking heart, Cressida realised that it would take her hours to go through everything. She’d have to choose some at random this time and hope for another opportunity at a later date.
‘Overseas Contacts’ sounded useful, given the fact that Interpol were interested in Guy Cronje’s activities, but when Cressida went through it she found that it consisted entirely of a list of collectors in France, Switzerland, Holland and Germany, all on the look-out for promising new artists whose works they could buy at a relatively low price but who Guy considered a good financial investment.
Cressida was rather shocked by this calculated approach. It was no different to buying stocks and shares and where artistic talent was concerned she found that unforgiveable.
‘Come on, Cressida, you’ve no time for moralising,’ she chided herself. ‘Keep looking for something useful.’ File after file was taken out and then replaced without anything of interest coming to light, and she was about to move over to the filing cabinet in the corner of the room when purely by chance she saw one headed ‘Renovations’, filed by mistake under the letter E.
The file was thick and divided into several sections. One was marked ‘Lord Summers’ and Cressida went straight to those pages. Sir Michael’s full name and address was listed, along with his wife’s name and the names of her parents. Beneath that was a long list of paintings, most of which had been purchased from the gallery and had nothing to do with renovations, but then near the bottom of the page she found a note to the effect that a Rembrandt and a Monet had been brought in for cleaning at the end of the previous year.
Cressida’s heart began to race. She frequently experienced a mixture of excitement and fear when on undercover work, and the fact that this time she was working in an upmarket art gallery rather than a downbeat nightclub didn’t change the underlying frisson of fear that always came when she felt that she was on to something.
There was no record of where the pictures went to be cleaned, or when they were returned to Lord Summers, and so Cressida decided to start checking out other names in the file. As she flicked through the sections she caught sight of the name Sir Peter Thornton, and tried to think why that rang a bell. Then she remembered. It was the name of the man whose daughter, Leonora, was coming to work at the gallery, a man who was also a friend of Detective Chief Inspector Williams. At the bottom of his page she found a note that a Holbein had been brought in for ‘skilled repair work’ at the end of April.
Now she knew that Guy and Marcia had definitely had the opportunity to forge reproductions of the paintings missing from the Summers’ estate. Furthermore, it seemed likely they were about to do the same to one of Sir Peter Thornton’s paintings.
There was a photocopier in the small room behind her desk in the gallery and she was just about to take the two relevant pages out of the file and copy them when the door to the office opened and Marcia walked in.
‘What on earth are you doing, Cressida?’ she asked in astonishment.
Cressida knew that she mustn’t blush or look guilty and her mind raced as she struggled to come up with an acceptable excuse for being caught going through Marcia’s private drawers.
‘A man called in just after I opened up,’ she said swiftly. ‘He wouldn’t give his name, but he said he’d recently inherited a Matisse from his grandfather and it needed a good clean and possibly some restoration work done on it. I remembered Sue saying that the gallery did do cleaning work on valuable paintings and was trying to find out some details. He said he’d call back.’
Marcia glanced at her wristwatch. ‘You must have opened up very early. It’s only ten now but you say you’ve already had a nameless visitor with a valuable painting to be cleaned?’
Cressida straightened up and smiled at Marcia. She was grateful now for her years of police work and her training in keeping calm in difficult situations, because there was a definite look of suspicion in Marcia’s eyes. ‘I was early,’ she admitted. ‘I’d hoped for some private time to look over Rick Marks’ work again. I can’t get it out of my mind, it seems to haunt me. I suppose that says something about my sexuality, but I’m not sure what!’ she laughed.
Marcia didn’t laugh. ‘What did the man with the inherited Matisse look like?’ she asked abruptly.
‘Tall, heavily built, about forty-five and with a shock of grey hair,’ said Cressida, improvising wildly. ‘Do you know him?’
‘I’m hardly likely to know him if he came here to see whether or not we could help out, am I? Why didn’t you get his name?’
‘I tried,’ Cressida assured her. ‘He was very evasive about giving me any details. He wouldn’t even say what the title of the painting was.’
‘If he comes back, please show him through to me,’ said Marcia.
‘Of course. I’m sorry I opened your desk drawers, but I didn’t think you’d mind since you’d left the key where anyone could find it.’
‘Only someone who opened the top drawer in the first place,’ said Marcia coldly. ‘As I recall, Sue didn’t mention anything about renovations on your job resumé did she?’
‘No, but she must have mentioned it some other time,’ said Cressida. ‘It isn’t a secret, is it? I mean, I didn’t do anything wrong telling this man we could probably help?’
‘Why on earth should anything about our work be a secret?’ asked Marcia, walking over to Cressida and removing the file casually from her hands. ‘If we offer a service we advertise it. There wouldn’t be much point in doing it otherwise – that would prove financially rather unrewarding, don’t you think?’
‘I wondered if it was something you only did for personal friends,’ said Cressida, trying to ease the tension in the room.
‘We mention the service in our catalogue,’ said Marcia shortly. ‘Perhaps you should try reading that before you go and stare at Rick’s work again. Guy told me it fascinated you,’ she added, closing the desk drawers and re-locking them. ‘Rick’s calling in later this morning. You’ll have an opportunity to tell him what a fan you are then.’
Cressida decided to try and cover her confusion over being caught snooping by using Rick’s visit as an excuse. ‘I don’t think I really want to meet him,’ she said, backing away from Marcia’s desk and finally allowing the blush that had been threatening for the past few minutes to suffuse her face and neck. ‘I won’t know what to say.’
‘Tell him you think his drawings are the most erotic you’ve ever seen. That should keep him happy. And next time you want to look through a file, please ask my permission first.’
‘I will,’ said Cressida hastily. ‘Is Rick married?’ she continued, certain that this would divert Marcia. She was right.
‘His pictures have certainly made an impression on you!’ laughed the older woman. ‘As a matter of fact, no, he isn’t married. At least, not to a woman. I think, like most truly creative people, he’s probably married to his art. That doesn’t stop him taking a very enthusiastic interest in the opposite sex though, so you might be in with a chance!’
‘I wasn’t thinking of anything like that,’ protested Cressida, relieved to see that Marcia’s face had lost its look of suspicion. ‘But when you see images like the ones he creates you can’t help wondering what kind of man he is.’
‘Quite ordinary really,’ said Marcia dismissively. ‘He’ll like you; he’s always drawn to enigmatic women.’
‘I don’t think I’m enigmatic!’ protested Cressida.
Marcia looked thoughtfully at her. ‘I do, and so does Guy.’
Cressida didn’t know whether to be pleased that Guy and Marcia had discussed her or not. On a professional level it was certainly what her superiors would want, but on a personal level it made her uncomfortable.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Marcia, seeing the look of discomfort on her assistant’s face. ‘Guy didn’t tell me that, but I always know when he’s interested in a woman. Not that his interest usually leads to anything – only the occasional brief fling but never any true commitment.’
It was a warning, and Cressida knew it, but she pretended that she didn’t know what Marcia was driving at. ‘He doesn’t look the marrying kind to me,’ she admitted lightly. ‘Not that I’ve seen much of him, but I imagine it would be hard for anyone to hold his interest for long.’
Marcia nodded. ‘He and I have known each other six years now, and that’s probably a record for Guy even as far as friendships go. He’s rather a loner.’
‘But a good business partner,’ said Cressida brightly, moving thankfully towards the door and freedom from Marcia’s questions and suggestions.
‘Oh yes,’ agreed Marcia. ‘He’s certainly a good partner, in more ways than one.’
As soon as Cressida got back to her desk in the reception area she started to work out how she could contact Detective Chief Inspector Williams and get him to come up with someone who would act as her imaginary caller early that morning. She knew that Marcia was still highly suspicious about the unknown man and his inherited Matisse.
While she was working out how she could get a message to him before the end of the day, a young man walked in through the door. He was tall – well over six feet in height – and had a mass of long, wavy blond hair. Coming directly to the desk he leant against the corner and stared at Cressida. ‘Who the hell are you?’
‘My name’s Cressida Farleigh and I’m the new assistant here,’ she said politely. ‘Can I help you at all?’
The blond man grinned, showing very white even teeth. ‘Probably, but not where my work’s concerned. I want to speak to Guy Cronje. Is he in?’
‘No, but Marcia Neville is. Would you like to see her?’ asked Cressida.
‘Sure, Marcia will do. Tell me, Cressida, how long have you been working here?’
‘Less than a week.’
‘And are you enjoying it?’ His light blue eyes were bright with curiosity and his good humour so obvious that she couldn’t help smiling at him.
‘Yes, immensely. I’m fascinated by the work that’s on display here. In fact, I’m hoping to meet one of the artists today.’
‘Which artist is that?’
‘Rick Marks. If you want to see his work it’s down the far end in the sectioned-off area. It’s the kind of work that some people might find disturbing – that’s why it’s kept separate.’
‘But it doesn’t shock you?’
Cressida shook her head. ‘No, although it does make me feel very strange.’
‘Nice strange or nasty strange?’ he asked with interest.
‘I can’t work it out.’ said Cressida. ‘At first I thought it was too male dominated to be erotic from a female point of view, but the more I look at it the more I think I got it wrong first time round. I believe the artist is really saying that women hold the balance of power in sexual relationships, while men believe that they do. If you’ve got time, go and see what you think,’ she added as Marcia came out of her office.
‘I don’t need to,’ said the young man. ‘I drew them, and your second appraisal is the correct one. Love the outfit,’ he added, and then with a wink at her he followed Marcia back to her room.
Through her police work Cressida had long ago learnt that it was a mistake to judge people by appearances, but just the same, reconciling the open, fresh-faced amiable bear of a young man that she’d just met with the dark broodingly erotic pictures he drew was almost impossible. If Guy Cronje had drawn them it wouldn’t have surprised her in the least, but Rick Marks didn’t look as though he was an artist at all.
She was surprised at how much she’d liked him, and pleased that she’d chosen her cream linen shift dress with a matching waffle-textured tunic-style jacket, covered in pink and yellow flowers. It was going to be difficult for her when she had to wear her uniform every day. The upmarket clothes required for her present job were definitely gaining in appeal, and she knew that they suited her.
She was busy for the next hour and when Rick Marks emerged again he hung around, waiting until she’d finished dealing with a prospective buyer. ‘How are you fixed for lunch?’ he asked casually.
Cressida would have loved to have lunch with him, and knew that her superiors would approve as well, but if she didn’t make her telephone call about the customer she’d invented earlier, she had a feeling Marcia might tell Guy that she had doubts about her, which meant the call had to come first.
‘Sorry, I’m spoken for,’ she said with a regretful smile.
‘Permanently?’ asked Rick.
Cressida shook her head. ‘Absolutely not! I’m rather keen on keeping my freedom for a few more years yet, but I’ve already made arrangements for lunch today.’
‘How about dinner then? Where do you live? I could pick you up at eight and we’ll go to my favourite bistro at Covent Garden. They let me eat there for nothing because I did a free mural for them before they opened.’
‘I don’t think you’re meant to tell your dates that you’re getting their food free!’ laughed Cressida.
‘I’m making sure you know I’m a poverty-stricken struggling artist,’ said Rick with a grin.
‘Not for long, according to Guy,’ retorted Cressida. ‘He thinks a lot of your work.’
‘Yes, but that’s because he thinks he can make a lot of money from it,’ said Rick. ‘I value your opinion more.’
‘Flattery will get you everywhere!’ laughed Cressida. ‘All right, let’s say eight tonight. Here, I’ll write down my address for you.’
As she was scribbling on her pad, Marcia came up behind Rick. ‘What’s this then?’
‘I’m taking Cressida out to dinner tonight. She seems a very discerning young woman and doesn’t look as though she eats too much,’ responded Rick.
Marcia nodded in approval. ‘She’s certainly a hard worker. She may even fire you with enthusiasm for the new series Guy wants. Incidentally, Cressida, has that man called back about the restoration of his Matisse?’
‘Not yet,’ said Cressida, keeping her head bent over her pad.
‘Well, make sure you tell me when he does. And don’t forget that Leonora Thornton starts with us this afternoon. You’ll have to find something for her to do that makes her feel useful, but nothing too complicated. Her stepmother says she’s got the attention span of a two-year-old.’
‘I hope that doesn’t mean you’ve got to cut your lunch date short,’ said Rick sympathetically as he left.
‘You’re a busy girl,’ said Marcia. ‘A lunch date and a dinner date on the same day. I always did say still waters ran deep.’
‘My lunch date isn’t very exciting,’ Cressida said quickly. ‘He’s more of a friend than a lover now. You know how it is.’
‘Not really,’ said Marcia. ‘When I stop being a man’s lover then I lose interest in him as a friend. Let’s be honest, most of the men we fancy aren’t chosen because of their “friendly” qualities! Personally I like men who are dangerous as lovers. Men like that aren’t usually interested in being “friends” once an affair’s over either. Maybe you prefer a different type of man though?’
‘I probably do,’ said Cressida, wishing they could get off the subject of her non-existent lunch date. ‘I go for men who make me feel safe and cherished.’
‘You’re much too young for that,’ exclaimed Marcia in mock horror. ‘Mind you, if that’s what turns you on, make sure the man in question is both elderly and rich. That way you can have your fun later on. Rich women of a certain age never have any problem in finding a gorgeous young man.’
‘I wouldn’t pay for sex!’ said Cressida, genuinely shocked by the prospect.
‘Why not? Plenty of men do, often when they marry their third or fourth young wife as they go into their sixties! I expect they pretend it’s love, but deep down they must know the truth. We see a lot of that with the people we deal with. Men who can afford expensive art collections are usually well past their prime, but never without a lithe beauty on their arm, I can assure you. Remember now, let me know when the Matisse owner calls, and enjoy your lunch. Leonora won’t be here until two.’
‘Fine, I’ll make sure I’m back by then,’ Cressida promised her.
The rest of the morning passed quietly and she found that she was thinking about Rick Marks a great deal of the time.
As soon as it was time for her lunch break, she collected her handbag and then hurried out to her car. Deciding it wasn’t safe to make the call anywhere near the gallery, she used a public phone box a couple of miles away, and then had to wait while they paged Detective Chief Inspector Williams. It seemed to take an age for him to get to a phone and all the time the minutes of her lunch break were ticking away.
‘What’s the matter?’ he demanded. ‘You’re not in any trouble, are you?’
‘No, nothing like that,’ Cressida assured him, and then she explained what had happened.
‘Let me make sure I’ve got this right,’ he murmured after listening to her story. ‘The man has to be tall and well built, in his mid-forties and have a shock of grey hair, yes?’
‘Yes!’ said Cressida impatiently.
The chief inspector ignored her efforts to hurry him. ‘And he’s inherited a Monet from his grandfather, is that it?’
‘No, a Matisse which needs cleaning and possibly some restoration work. He shouldn’t know too much about art. I made him out to be a novice in the field to make it easier for you.’
‘How kind! And where do we pick up a cheap Matisse within the next hour or two?’
‘I’m sorry, sir, but I’ve really no idea,’ said Cressida. ‘I’m doing my very best this end, and I really think I’m making some progress. I can’t afford to start arousing suspicion now particularly since one of the artists has asked me out to dinner tonight, and he knows both Guy and Marcia very well.’
‘In that case I’ll hand this over to someone with specialised knowledge immediately,’ promised her boss. ‘Keep up the good work, Cressida. I’ve got a feeling we’re going to crack this one with your help. One thing, now that you’re well and truly in at the gallery make sure Tom stays away from you. Right, off you go and leave everything to me. Your tall grey-haired stranger will call in during the afternoon.’
After her call, Cressida just had time to buy herself a roll and eat it in the car before driving back to the gallery. Polly looked up as she entered and tilted her head to the right. Glancing in that direction, Cressida saw a young girl standing by the wall, biting on the skin at the side of her thumb. She had shoulder-length light brown hair, hazel eyes and a pale face that wasn’t helped by her navy outfit of oversize T-shirt and ankle-length baggy skirt. It drained any slight vestige of colour that she might have possessed.
‘You must be Leonora,’ said Cressida brightly, privately wondering what on earth Marcia would say about the girl’s clothes. ‘I’m Cressida, and you’ll be helping me while you’re here. Sorry I was out when you arrived.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said the girl flatly. ‘I was early. Daddy dropped me off. He probably thought I wouldn’t come if he didn’t.’
‘If you’re interested in art you’ll like it here,’ Cressida assured her. ‘Everyone’s very friendly and helpful, and the customers are generally a nice lot.’
‘I’m not interested in art,’ said Leonora. ‘I’m only here so that Daddy’s free to screw my stepmother during the day. I get in the way and stop her making a noise.’ Polly snorted with laughter and quickly went into the back room.
Cressida couldn’t think of anything to say in reply, so got out a catalogue and handed it to the disinterested girl. ‘Have a look through this,’ she said firmly. ‘It tells you all about the artists whose work we display here, and the other services we offer. For example, we sell prints and can get them framed, we also clean old paintings and –’
‘Is there a coffee machine?’ asked Leonora, interrupting Cressida in mid-flow.
‘No, we have to make our own but you have to fit your refreshment round the work, not the other way about.’
‘You sound more like a teacher than an art graduate,’ remarked Leonora. Cressida was grateful the wretched girl hadn’t said a policewoman.
As she and Leonora Thornton stood staring at each other, Marcia and Guy came in through the door. Guy was wearing a blue and grey checked jacket over a pale blue shirt, open at the neck, and navy trousers. His dark hair was tidier than the first time Cressida had seen him, but he looked pale and tense and there was no hint of a smile on his face as he greeted her.
Marcia, who had been smiling as she entered the reception area, stopped the moment she set eyes on Leonora. ‘Where in heaven’s name did you get those ghastly clothes?’ she demanded in an icy voice.
Leonora’s cheeks showed a hint of colour at the criticism. ‘They’re my favourite,’ she muttered.
Guy glanced briefly at her, raised his eyebrows at Cressida and went into the office, leaving Marcia to deal with the girl. As Marcia started to tell Leonora the standard of dress she expected from her in future, the phone buzzed and Cressida was summoned into the office to see Guy.
He was sitting behind the desk that she’d searched early that morning and his face was tight with tension although he did attempt a smile, but it failed to reach his eyes. ‘Marcia tells me you had a customer in this morning who was interested in our cleaning service,’ he said abruptly.
Cressida looked straight into his eyes and smiled. ‘Yes, that’s right. He said he’d call back later today. Is it a profitable sideline?’
Guy frowned. ‘Sideline?’
‘I didn’t think it was the main function of the gallery,’ explained Cressida.
‘It’s one of our most important functions,’ said Guy. ‘It’s a very specialised art, and we’re lucky to have contacts in the profession who can do an excellent job. As for it being lucrative, as a matter of fact, it is. It also works on commission, so if this stranger does return and leave us his precious inheritance you’ll find a little bonus in your pay package.’
Cressida felt very guilty but gave a polite smile. ‘That would be nice,’ she acknowledged.
Guy looked searchingly at her. ‘That would be nice!’ he mimicked. ‘I didn’t realise you were fortunate enough not to have to think about money, Cressida.’
‘I’m not! It matters to me the same as to everyone, but it isn’t everything. I’d rather be in a job I liked and earn sufficient than thoroughly miserable but earning a fortune.’
Guy’s fingers fidgeted with some paperclips on his desk and again Cressida was aware of the suppressed energy within him. ‘What about sex?’ he asked abruptly.
‘Sex?’
‘You didn’t mention your love life in that interesting and worthy speech. I wondered where sex came on your list of priorities.’
‘Somewhere in the middle I suppose,’ she replied, wishing he wasn’t looking at her so closely because all she could think about was Tom and how unco-operative he’d been when they’d last made love.
‘How boring,’ said Guy shortly. ‘Let’s hope Rick can change your mind for you. If you’re to be the inspiration for his eagerly awaited next picture then he’d better. “Somewhere in the middle” doesn’t conjure up a very erotic image.’
‘Who told you I was going out with Rick?’ asked Cressida in surprise.
‘Marcia of course. She and I don’t have any secrets from each other. At least, Marcia doesn’t have any from me,’ he added with a half-smile.
‘Is there anything else?’ asked Cressida, realising that she was taking far too much interest in his face; the sharp jawline and the deep brown eyes; the mobile mouth that hinted at passions she’d never even experienced.
‘No, nothing else. Off you go, and try and get that dreadful girl out there into some sort of presentable state by tomorrow please.’
‘I didn’t choose her,’ said Cressida, irritated by the assumption that she should be responsible for Leonora. ‘She’s the daughter of your friend, not mine.’
Guy glanced up at her in surprise. ‘My word, it bites! You’re quite right, she isn’t your responsibility, but I thought you might do a make-over job on her more tactfully than Marcia. She goes straight for the jugular. You don’t have that killer instinct; at least, I don’t think you do,’ he added softly.
‘I feel sorry for her,’ muttered Cressida.
‘Why’s that?’
‘Because she doesn’t want to be here any more than we want to have her. She’s being pushed around so that her father and stepmother can have their fun and games without fear of interruption.’
‘That’s life,’ laughed Guy. ‘Her time will come. Although I can’t imagine when, the way she looks at the moment. It’s almost enough to make me consider taking her in hand myself, but I don’t think I could cope with the teenage sulks.’
‘She might think you’re a bit old for her,’ Cressida pointed out.
Guy’s eyes widened in surprise and then he grinned. ‘I’m sure you’re right. What a dreadful thought, that I might go out of my way to show her the wonders of life only to be turned down because I’m past it! Back to work, Cressida. And remember, let us know the moment your Matisse man arrives.’
As Cressida shut the door behind her, she knew that despite the banter and apparent amiability Guy was suspicious of her. He didn’t believe in her customer, and the fact that he and Marcia kept mentioning the man seemed to be proof that they had something to hide. Clearly Cressida should not have seen the contents of their files, and they were waiting to see if she was a spy. Unfortunately for them innocent people weren’t worried about spies, but criminals were. They were starting to show Cressida that Interpol were right; the gallery had things it needed to hide.
The next two hours dragged by. Leonora had to be told everything at least three times and even then did her jobs with a very bad grace. Customers were few, which meant that there was little to distract Cressida, and every time the door did open she looked up, hoping desperately that it would be the man with grey hair.
At 4.15, when Cressida’s heart was beginning to beat faster than normal with stress, the bell over the door went and a tall man in his mid-forties with a mass of thick grey hair walked into the gallery. He glanced at Polly, who took half a step towards him, and then as Cressida made a slight movement with her right hand he turned and smiled at her.
‘I said I’d come back. I hope this is a better time?’ he said quietly, picking up her hint.
Cressida felt a surge of relief and smiled back. ‘It certainly is. If you don’t mind waiting I’ll go and tell the owners of the gallery that you’re here. Did you bring the painting with you?’
He held a brown paper package tied loosely with string. ‘Yes, it’s here.’
‘Wonderful! Just a moment.’ Once outside the closed office door, Cressida composed herself carefully before knocking. It was vital that she didn’t seem relieved that the man was here. This was meant to be run-of-the-mill work for her and she knew that both Guy and Marcia would be studying her carefully when she announced the visitor.
After a light tap on the door she went in and Marcia, who was standing very close to Guy in the far corner of the room, took a step back from him. ‘Yes?’ she asked irritably.
‘I thought you’d like to know that the man with the Matisse is here,’ said Cressida quietly. ‘Shall I show him through?’
A frown creased Marcia’s forehead but Guy smiled at Cressida and nodded. ‘Please do. And well done,’ he added. ‘You’re proving a great asset to the gallery.’
‘We haven’t seen the so-called Matisse yet,’ Marcia pointed out.
‘No, but I think Cressida has done her part.’
As the man sent by Detective Chief Inspector Williams was ushered through to see her employers, Cressida felt like shouting aloud with triumph. Clearly Marcia had been certain the man didn’t exist, and equally clearly Guy was delighted that he did, which must mean that he liked Cressida. All in all she felt that her work was going extremely well, and she had the added bonus of dinner with Rick that night to look forward to.
When Rick arrived to collect Cressida she was still dressing, having put on and then discarded numerous outfits as either too dressy or too downbeat. Throwing a towelling robe over her underwear she showed him into her front room and then dashed off again, hoping there wasn’t anything around that would give away her true profession. She’d been careful to remove all photographs of herself in uniform several days earlier, in case someone from the gallery called round unexpectedly.
Finally, dressed in an ice-cream pink sleeveless mini dress with a matching double-breasted coat, she rejoined him. He was watching cricket on the television and glanced at her appreciatively.
‘Nice! Those shiny tights are all the rage this summer; they’re very sexy.’
‘I’m glad you approve!’ she laughed. ‘I wasn’t sure how to dress and thought this outfit could go anywhere.’
‘We don’t make a very good couple,’ he said in amusement, and as she looked at him and took in his old petrol-blue tunic sweater worn over a faded blue T-shirt, teamed rather incongruously with a pair of navy pinstripe trousers, she realised that he was right.
‘Shall I change?’ she asked anxiously.
Rick shook his head. ‘You’re looking far too attractive to be the one to change, and I’m too lazy. It won’t matter. They’re used to me looking like this. I only ever dress up for Guy’s dinner parties. As for you, they’ll probably wonder what you see in me!’
Climbing into Rick’s battered Ford Fiesta, Cressida was quite certain they wouldn’t wonder about that. Seen out of the gallery Rick was even more attractive than she’d originally thought. His fair skin was lightly tanned, which made his grey-blue eyes all the more striking, and he had a generous mouth, prominent cheekbones and a straight Roman nose. The combination made her feel quite breathless with what she supposed must be desire. If it was, she’d never truly desired Tom, she realised ruefully.
The restaurant, small and tucked away on the edges of the Covent Garden Piazza, was designed to look like a greenhouse and when they walked in the door the heat seemed to hit her in the face. She was grateful when Rick took her coat.
The proprietor came hurrying out to greet him, shaking him warmly by the hand and ushering them to a table in the corner of the room where they were relatively private. He then brought them a bottle of house wine and left them with the menu.
‘Where’s your mural?’ asked Cressida, wishing she could use the menu as a fan.
‘Behind you,’ said Rick.
Cressida turned, and saw that the wall behind her was covered with drawings of young men and women. Some were kissing, others holding hands, while a few were simply standing staring at each other, but every one of the pairs gave off a feeling of incredible sexuality. It was as though they were about to remove their admittedly scanty clothing and start making love at any moment. Cressida couldn’t work out how Rick had managed to create such a feeling when there was nothing overtly sexual about what they were doing.
‘Like it?’ he asked nonchalantly.
‘It’s very powerful,’ said Cressida, aware the word was a feeble one for the way the mural made her feel but unable to think of anything else to say.
He nodded. ‘That’s the way I wanted it to be. It’s a statement you see; a statement about the contrast between what society wants people to feel and do and what they really want themselves – from an erotic point of view, that is.’
‘Well, you can certainly tell what those people really want to do,’ she assured him. ‘I’m just not sure how you managed to get the point over.’
‘It’s all in the muscles and facial expressions,’ he said, his face serious and his voice full of passion. ‘Tension, that’s the key to eroticism. There has to be sexual tension. Chocolates, flowers and a kiss on the sofa aren’t real passion. They’re window dressing, that’s all. My drawings show us the truth.’
At that moment the waiter returned to take their order. Cressida hadn’t even looked at the menu so Rick ordered mixed grill of fish for them both. ‘It’s one of the best meals in London at the moment,’ he promised her. Cressida didn’t really care. Her stomach felt as though it had closed down for the evening, and food didn’t hold any interest for her. The longer she was with Rick the more she was attracted to him, and his mural had made her feel almost as strange as his drawings in the gallery.
‘Guy tells me you’re doing a new picture at the moment,’ she remarked when the waiter had departed.
Rick, nibbling on his bread roll, nodded. ‘I’m meant to be. The truth is, I haven’t started yet. I’ve been waiting for inspiration. Now I think I may have found it.’
‘That’s good,’ said Cressida casually, not daring to believe she might be the trigger for one of his erotically charged drawings.
Rick grinned at her. ‘I mean you,’ he stated. ‘The moment I set eyes on you in the gallery I began to see the shape of the thing, and tonight when you came down all dressed up in that little-girl-pink outfit, like an advert for some new drink, I knew I was right.’
‘But that’s not your style!’ exclaimed Cressida, rather put out by his description of her clothes.
‘Not the exterior that you present to the world, no, but the contrast between my image of you – the way you make me feel, the things I want to do to you – and the way you dress and talk, that’s my style. You’re good at disguise, Cressida, did you know that?’
Considering that she was working undercover for the fraud squad at that very moment, Cressida found the remark rather ironic. ‘No, I didn’t,’ she muttered, relieved to see the waiter approaching with their food.
The waiter placed huge plates full of a delicious-looking assortment of fish in front of them, and then put down a bottle of pink Dom Perignon. ‘For the lady in pink, with the owner’s compliments!’ he exclaimed.
Rick was enchanted by Cressida’s embarrassment. ‘It’s a good job Chris de Burgh isn’t here – he’d probably write a song about you!’ he laughed. ‘I like it when you blush, it’s so old-fashioned. Most girls today don’t know how to blush, and it’s very sexy.’
‘It isn’t an art that you acquire,’ retorted Cressida. ‘It’s something that happens, and I don’t like it as much as you seem to.’
‘At least it means that people know when you’re being honest with them. It would be difficult to lie deliberately when you blush.’
If he only knew, thought Cressida, picking at her meal and feeling more and more guilty about her deception. It wasn’t as though what Guy and Marcia were doing had anything to do with Rick, but she was using him shamelessly to try and get closer to them. Worse still, she was enjoying it.
‘When we’ve eaten, will you come back to my place?’ asked Rick. ‘I don’t want to show you my etchings, but I would like to show you the outline I’ve drafted for my new idea – the idea you’ve inspired.’
‘I’d love to,’ agreed Cressida, feeling her legs going weak at the prospect.
‘How many lovers have you had?’ asked Rick casually.
Cressida nearly choked on a piece of grilled tuna. ‘That’s my business!’ she said shortly.
‘I only wondered. You look as though you’d be a six or seven sort of girl. Didn’t you just love that scene in Four Weddings and a Funeral when Andie McDowell goes through her list of lovers and the list seems to last for ever? I thought that was one of the best bits in it!’
‘I liked John Hannah reading Auden’s ‘Funeral Blues’, said Cressida.
Rick blinked in surprise. ‘Well, it was moving but hardly the highlight of a delightful comedy of modern sexual manners!’
‘It was still my favourite bit,’ said Cressida stubbornly.
‘Perhaps sex and death are linked in your mind,’ said Rick thoughtfully. ‘Do you know what the French call an orgasm? A little death, and in a way it is.’
‘Do you really think like this, or is it an act?’ asked Cressida, drinking some of her champagne.
‘I never put on an act,’ Rick retorted. ‘Of course this is the way I think. That’s why my pictures come out the way they do.’
‘It’s odd, because it isn’t the way you look,’ said Cressida. ‘You seem to be so wholesome; the sort of guy who likes rugby and cricket and belongs to his local squash club.’
‘I do like cricket.’
‘Yes, but dark sex is your favourite subject, and you don’t look at all dark. In fact,’ she added, getting braver by the minute as the champagne began to take effect, ‘you look a positively conventional sort of guy. Not that different from Tom.’
Rick’s eyes narrowed. ‘Who’s Tom?’
Cressida hesitated, cursing the alcohol and the relaxed ambience of the evening for letting her make such a stupid mistake. ‘My last lover,’ she said reluctantly.
‘An ex?’
‘Definitely an ex.’
Rick’s face was happy again. ‘That’s all I wanted to know. How about a crême brulée for dessert?’
After that, Cressida was more careful about what she said, and by the time they left the restaurant and got into the old Ford Fiesta again, she felt that she was almost back in total control.
Rick drove carefully to his flat in Bayswater. It was over a karate club and had a huge window in the ceiling which made it perfect for his work. There was one double bedroom off the main room, and a small kitchen and toilet, but it was clear he didn’t bother to clear up very often. Cressida could hardly move for sketches, paintings, discarded articles of clothing and dirty crockery.
‘Sorry about the mess,’ he said casually. ‘I have a tidy up once a month, and the month’s nearly up!’
In the middle of the floor there was an easel with a picture on it, but it was covered by a cloth and she assumed this was the outline for his new work. On the walls of the room there were dozens of rough pencil sketches. Some of them were clearly roughs for the pictures Cressida had seen in the gallery, while others were totally new to her, but they all had the same theme of a tethered or restrained woman dominating the picture while a faceless man looked on.
‘Here, this is my first new rough draft, the one I did after seeing you at the gallery this morning,’ said Rick after rummaging through a heap of papers. Cressida took the white sheet of paper and stared at the drawing.
A young woman with very long legs and short dark hair was sitting on a desk, and her left knee was drawn up close to her chest while her right leg hung over the edge. Her arms were stretched out to either side supporting her. There was a thin line around her neck, which looked as though Rick might intend it to be a rope or leash, but apart from that she was quite free. What was different about this picture was the fact that the young woman wasn’t naked.
She was wearing a suit that looked as though it belonged to the days of power dressing. The jacket had padded shoulders and wide lapels, but jagged tears had been created at strategic points so that one breast stuck out boldly. Every muscle and sinew at the top of the left leg could be seen and so could the opening at the top of the thighs. Her sex organs were exaggerated, like women in Eastern works of erotica, and the contrast between the business-like expression on her face and her nylon-covered right leg compared with the bared breast and vulnerable vulva was shocking and yet compelling.
‘Is that how you saw me?’ asked Cressida in horror.
Rick looked closely at her. ‘Not literally, no, but it triggered the idea. Why? Don’t you like it?’
Cressida shook her head. ‘I don’t think I do,’ she said quietly.
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t understand which is meant to be the real woman. The one who’s in control or the one who’s blatantly sexual in a way that’s meant to pander to men’s fantasies.’
‘Can’t a woman be both?’ enquired Rick, equally softly, as he took a step towards her.
Cressida began to tremble as he reached out and slowly pulled her towards him. ‘I think you’re both,’ he muttered, and then she felt his fingers starting to tear at the buttons on her pink coat as he lowered his mouth on to hers.